


All The Way Home (I'll Be Warm)

by Sir_Bedevere



Series: Blessed Nights [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Also some minor Javert angst, But it's gonna be fine, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, IT'S SO FLUFFY, It's Christmas after all, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: Toussaint had not wanted them to leave the house in such weather and Javert, for once, was inclined to agree with her. His reason was not due to the storm however; rather, the destination was less than acceptable. They were going to the great house of Monsieur Gillenormand, to spend Christmas with Valjean’s daughter and her dolt of a husband. Javert did not know how to ‘spend Christmas’ in company. It was not something he had ever been asked to do.
 Javert's first Christmas with Valjean does not go as smoothly as he'd wish.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to my Christmas story from last year, 'Blessed Night'. Someone (I think estevan?) asked for the story of a briefly mentioned first Christmas and so here it is :D 
> 
> It is absolutely not necessary to have read 'Blessed Nights' for this to make sense.

The snow had fallen so thickly by two days before Christmas that even the coaches were finding that picking the way along the streets was increasingly difficult. The weather was far from affable either; a strong wind had been blowing all day and, as evening came, more snow began to fall, whipped into flurries by the unrelenting gales. Into this unpleasantness Javert and Valjean stepped, bundled in great coats, scarves, gloves and high boots, hats pulled low on their foreheads.

Javert could feel the worried eyes of Toussaint at their backs as they began to battle along the street; the housekeeper was a good woman, to be sure, but a little too inclined to fussing. She did not think much of her employer’s admirable strength, and had treated Javert like spun glass since the day Valjean dragged him from the river. She had not wanted them to leave the house in such weather and Javert, for once, was inclined to agree with her. His reason was not due to the storm however; rather, the destination was less than acceptable. They were going to the great house of Monsieur Gillenormand, to spend Christmas with Valjean’s daughter and her dolt of a husband. Javert did not know how to ‘spend Christmas’ in company. It was not something he had ever been asked to do.

“Javert?”

He blinked and stopped in his tracks, the voice calling his name carrying on the wind. Turning, he saw Valjean indicate a sheltered alley. From his expression, he had probably been calling Javert’s name for a while.

Doubling back, Javert followed him into the mouth of the alley and leaned against the wall. Valjean’s cheeks were red, and Javert was grateful for his own sideburns; they offered a little more protection from the chill.

“Let us rest for a moment or two,” Valjean said, crossing his arms and leaning back, mirroring Javert. Whether he did so consciously or unconsciously, Javert did not know. He did know that the longer they stayed in this alley, hidden from the world, the better. In here, he could not disappoint Valjean, or distress Cosette, or upset that foolish boy or his grandfather. In here, he was safe.

Valjean, for his part, seemed calm, much calmer than he had been before visits to his daughter previously. Javert had found him once in the middle of the night, pacing the kitchen, his thoughts so loud that Javert could practically hear them from his chamber. He had gone down to discover Valjean pacing and weeping, pacing and weeping, and unwilling to talk until Javert had pushed him into a chair and demanded an explanation. 

“She deserves those things,” Valjean cried, “All of those things and more. I do not deserve them, or her, now she is my better. I cannot ask for her love. I have no right to it.”

To his shame, Javert had not helped him. He had all but fled the room, leaving Valjean to nurse his own melancholy, and taken refuge in his bed. They still had no discussed it, not really, although Javert had no doubt that Valjean had thought on it. If he had wept about his daughter since then, he’d done it quietly. Javert knew that if it had been the other way around, if Valjean had found him in such a state, he wouldn’t have been so cowardly. He hadn’t been cowardly, in the months after the bridge.

“Come,” Valjean said, a hand on Javert’s arm, “If we linger too long we shall not want to continue.”

As they stepped into the wind once more, Javert was convinced more than ever that Valjean could read his mind. 

It was further than Javert imagined to the Gillenormand house, or perhaps they just walked much slower than he used to. The streets were full of revellers, walking in the snow or visiting the small shops that lined the streets. Tomorrow, they would be closed in preparation for the important day after. In his old life, the closing of the businesses had been both a curse and a blessing. On the bad days it was a curse because he had forgotten some small and important purchase. To the policeman it had been a time of quiet streets and a quieter station because of it, a time for catching up on correspondence and paperwork. Ever since he was old enough to do so, Javert had worked during Christmas. It seemed the right thing to do, when it had meant so little to him whilst meaning so much to his colleagues. Besides, he had never had anyone to spend the day with. His landlady of late had cooked goose and he had enjoyed the small indulgence when he stumbled home, exhausted, in the early hours of the day after Christmas. He thought of his small apartment, abandoned more often than not of late as he was invited to use the spare bed in Valjean’s house, and he half wished he could be there now. There was no person there that he could offend with ill humour and unease.

Valjean already knew this, or knew at the very least that something was wrong. He did not speak, but he watched even more than he did usually. His eyes, the only part of his face visible between his hat and his high collar, were fixed on Javert as they walked and walked. On a usual day, Javert could hardly bear Valjean’s scrutiny. Today, he felt as though he was burning.

“We are almost there,” Valjean said eventually, “Do you wish to take a moment? To prepare yourself?”

“I am well,” Javert lied. If he stopped now, he could not promise that he would make it to the front door. He had spent a little time in Cosette’s company, and briefly met the boy, but Monsieur Gillenormand was a new acquaintance. Valjean assured him that the old man was amiable but that was far from the problem. The man could be the most amiable host who ever lived, but that would not stop Javert from   
being the worst of guests.

The house was decorated for the festivities, visible even from the street. A large green wreath, tied with red ribbon, adorned the front door. More wreaths lined the windowsills, and every window was lit up with candles. It was an unashamed show of wealth, and Javert noticed Valjean’s eyes darken to see it. For a man used to living so frugally, giving his money away, it was sure to be distasteful.

“I do hope Monsieur Gillenormand has not gone to great expense for our benefit,” Valjean said, leading Javert up the path, “He did not need to.”

The comment, although disagreeable, settled Javert’s nerves a little. This was the Valjean he knew, the man he was used to debating and discussing with.

“If Gillenormand is the man you have described to me, this is surely a normal display for him. I doubt he had you in mind at all.”

“You are right, of course,” Valjean smiled, knocking at the door, “As always. This is a cause for celebration. Let us be gracious.”

Cosette herself appeared at the door, so soon after Valjean knocked that Javert suspected she had been hovering there, waiting for them.

“Papa,” she flung her arms around Valjean’s neck, almost knocking him over with her enthusiasm, “Isn’t the weather frightful? Did you walk all this way? Are you tired?”

“My dear,” Valjean laughed, and the sound warmed Javert a little against the cold, “Perhaps we could come inside before we are buried in this snow?”

“Of course,” she pulled back, tugging her father’s hand. Javert followed close behind, taking the liberty of closing the door himself against the wind.

“Monsieur Javert, you are most welcome, please forgive me!” Cosette turned to him, reaching out to press his arm, “I am a little excited, I fear.”

Cosette was free with her touches and had been for almost all of their acquaintance, once she had learned of his part in Marius’ survival. 

Despite his nerves, Javert could not help but feel a little more grounded than he had before. From what he had seen, he was far from the only one affected so; Cosette had similar effects on Valjean and Marius and, if Valjean’s reports were to be believed, on Monsieur Gillenormand as well. Javert had never had much interest in women but he sometimes wondered if he had met one such as Cosette, when he was of an age to do so, if things could have been different. He would certainly have felt more comfortable in performing the duties of a young man, at least. Nothing could tell him if he would have been content with it.

“Marius and Grandpapa are in the drawing room,” Cosette hovered whilst Valjean and Javert were divested of their outer garments, “We had just decided to have some tea and cake. You’re just in time.”

The rest of that afternoon and evening passed in a whirl of activity, as Javert and Marius were shown ‘the stable’, a Nativity scene that Valjean had designed and built for Cosette when she was but eight or nine years old. Dinner was, by Gillenormand’s orders, a simple affair, saving the cook the work before her busy days ahead. For his part, Javert was pleased only to make it through the evening and be able to retire to his room soon after the meal.

He had been assigned a small but perfectly adequate chamber on the second floor landing; at the end of the corridor, away from Gillenormand, with Valjean between them. Marius and Cosette had a suite on the first floor, the suite that Gillenormand had shared with his wife until her death. Valjean had not followed Javert when he declared his intention to go to bed, although he had seemed for a moment like he might. As much as Javert longed for his company, he was glad that Valjean had stayed; he did not want to disrupt the happiness of this little gathering with his own anxious demands. He was well aware that he was only here because he had been added onto Valjean’s invitation, the lone friend to be pitied and coddled. He would not put upon them anymore.

A short while later, there came a knock at his door. Javert was already changed into his nightshirt and robe, but he opened it anyway; only one person would be calling on him.

“Would you mind if I came to sit a moment?” Valjean was leaning on the doorpost and he looked tired, like he might drop at any moment, “I find I need some quiet company before I retire.”

“Of course,” Javert stood back and waited until Valjean had taken a seat. He chose the bed, perfectly innocent of course, but Javert did not dare sit beside him. He closed the door and took the chair at the desk. A candle burned there, for he had been trying to compose a short festive note to his desk sergeant, to be delivered tomorrow. It had been hard going and he still was not happy with it; it was so untidy it looked as though he had been trying to bleed each word onto the page.

“What are you writing?” Valjean asked, reading his thoughts of always.

“I am trying to convey the sentiments of the season to François,” Javert saw no point in lying, “But I do not think I have the words in me.”

He gave the paper to Valjean, who read it carefully. Javert watched him, the wrinkle of his brow, the crinkle at the corner of his eye as he held the paper close to his face. He did not see as well as he once had, he’d explained to Javert, and reading was becoming an effort. Still, he gave the letter – barely half a page – far more attention than it deserved.

“It is perfectly acceptable, Javert,” he said, “Not overly sentimental, just as one would expect. Anything else would sound false, like words put into your mouth.”

As he handed the letter back, Valjean smoothed his thumb over the back of Javert’s hand. It should have been a comfort, and it was, although the heat that crept up Javert’s arm was anything but.

“I am sorry,” Javert said, “I have not been the best of company today and I fear I shall not improve.”

“Nonsense,” Valjean got slowly to his feet, “You have done admirably and shall continue to do so, I’m sure. Gillenormand said after you left that he is sorry to not have made your acquaintance before.”

“I do not entirely believe that report,” Javert saw his visitor to the door, back out to the chill of the corridor, “But I’ll hold my peace.”

In the darkness, the blue of Valjean’s eyes and the stark white of his beard and hair were almost all that Javert could see, but he imagined the smile when Valjean spoke once more.

“I am very glad that you are here, Javert, at the very least. I find it difficult to be long without you these days.”

There was something in his voice, and Javert wished he could see Valjean properly to try and make sense of it. It had been between them as of late, a heat that Javert recognised from his own side as a fierce and burning need, but Valjean was either more in control or simply lacking in the same feeling. If Javert were a brave man, he could lean forwards and kiss that smiling mouth, just to see if he could find his answer, but he was not brave and so the moment passed and Valjean was gone. 

Javert slept well, for all his fears, and woke early the next morning. He did not linger long in bed and soon found himself in the library, awaiting breakfast.

Gillenormand had an impressive collection, although not as personal as the one Valjean had cultivated over his years of freedom. This library was focused on the classics, both in the original and translation, and works of French literature. Valjean’s was more interesting and varied; philosophy and religion, literature from many nations, books of art and history. Valjean’s library had been collected painstakingly, year by year. Javert had even contributed tentatively to it, a cheap but serviceable volume of Percy Shelley poetry that he had found on his wanderings around the flea market.

Valjean had been delighted and, encouraged, Javert had purchased him another two collections of poetry as a Christmas gift. They were new and more than he could rightly afford, but he had bought them anyway. The woman in the shop, perhaps sensing his inadequacy, had wrapped them for him, in fine paper and red ribbon. The package sat now in his small coiffeur, ready for tomorrow. There was a box beside it, chocolates for Cosette, and a bottle of cognac for Marius and his grandfather. For these gifts, Valjean was responsible and had refused to accept payment for them. Javert, too bewildered to argue, had accepted the help.

At breakfast, when the sleepers had risen, Gillenormand announced he would be going to his club after lunch and would meet the rest of them at the church for the midnight service. He invited Valjean and Javert to join him, but Valjean refused on both their accounts; he had already promised to accompany Cosette and Marius on a walk around Saint-Michele, administering alms and food to the poor folk there.

So, it was that Javert found himself going on their mission. At two o’clock, the carriage was brought out to take them as far as the river, from where they would walk. Cosette’s cook had prepared two large baskets of bread and cakes, wrapped into dozens of small packages, and two more baskets of blankets were already tied onto the carriage. 

The narrow streets of Saint-Michele were thick with snow that had quickly turned to mud beneath the hundreds of feet that traversed it. Javert found a gamin to deliver his letter to François and then the carriage was unloaded. Cosette attempted to take one of the baskets but her husband and father protested and, chastised, she accepted the role of handing out the alms. Marius shouldered the largest of the baskets, leaving the three to Valjean and Javert.

“We’ll carry the larger between us,” Javert suggested, “And the smaller two, one each?”

Valjean would once have been strong enough to carry all four alone and probably still was, but it seemed the more reasonable demand.

“You must tell me if you’re tiring,” Valjean picked up his share of the burden, “And we will rest.”

“I am well,” Javert said, “Perhaps you will tell me if you are tiring.”

For a slow hour, they wound about the streets, slowly divesting themselves of the load. Mothers wept with gratitude at a loaf of bread and a blanket for their little ones, and more than one sickly looking invalid was wrapped in a blanket that would likely save their life when the temperature dropped that night. Once upon a time, such a thing would have disgusted Javert, the free and willing charity of those with too much money for their own good, but he had learned. He did not have much choice in that.

Cosette and Marius were cheerful in their task, and Valjean watched so happily that Javert could not help but be swept along on their tide of joy. Perhaps he could manage this Christmas debacle after all, if all that was required of him was a strong hand and a smile. Valjean’s look, when Javert spied a small girl off their course and stopped to take her a cake, was enough. He might do this and he might do it well.

At the end of the walk, back to the carriage, they had almost made it when Cosette stopped at a final huddled figure. Gently, she tipped back the hood of the figure and they saw it was a young woman, arms held so that she must have been cradling a babe beneath the threadbare coat. She seemed to have been sleeping, because she started when Cosette touched her. The woman’s eyes cast around and landed on Javert, and when she screamed he realised too late that he had seen her before.

“I’m sorry, inspector, I’m sorry,” she stumbled to her feet, “I ain’t done nothing, sir, I promise I ain’t.”

“Mademoiselle,” Valjean stepped forwards to comfort her, “Please-”

The woman would not be comforted. She fell to her knees before Javert, who froze as she grabbed at his hand, “Please inspector, don’t take me in again, sir, I was only sleeping sir, me and the babe. Please sir, I ain’t done nothing.”

Heat raced up Javert’s chest and he thought he might be sick, there and then. Cosette and Marius watched, aghast, and although he could not see Valjean’s face, he knew he’d have the same expression.

The babe began to cry, the woman dropped his hand, and Javert ran.


	2. Chapter 2

He half expected Valjean to follow him and let his instinct lead him, out of the narrow streets and across the bridge before his leg protested and he was forced to slow down. Risking a glance behind him, he saw that he was not being pursued, and leaned against the balustrade at the far end of the bridge to catch his breath. He could not run far these days; too many grey hairs and a knee the doctor had told him he was lucky to be able to use at all slowed him down. 

He could still hear her though, the woman, her pleas ringing in his head and feel the ice cold touch of her hand. He had taken her in to the station before, he knew that. He’d dragged her in more than once, truth be told, although he could not recall what it had been for. Before the barricades, before Valjean, he had not needed much reason to do anything he thought the right thing.

He’d been a monster and now Cosette and Marius knew it, knew who he really was. The looks on their faces…dear God, but they would never wish for his company again and Valjean – Valjean would have to shun him. He would not choose Javert over his darling Cosette and nor should he. 

After a few more moments rest, Javert straightened up and began to walk. He had not wanted Valjean to come to him, but he had hoped that he would. His chest ached and he did not think it was breathlessness that made it so. 

The snow began to fall again and he pulled his hat down low. He would go home, to his own rooms, where he could upset no one and where no one asked of him something he could not give. 

It was dark by the time he got to his lodgings and few people were on the streets. The turn of his key in the lock attracted the attention of the landlady and she was standing on the stairs when he opened the door and stepped inside.

“Inspector!” Madame Dubois crossed her arms, “I was not expecting you back.”

“A small change of plans, madame,” Javert fought to keep his voice level, “I shall be here for Christmas after all.”

Javert had, despite Valjean’s constant invitations to become a full time inhabitant of the apartment, maintained his own rooms and slept there still when he was working uncivilised hours. Madame Dubois had become used to his new routine and hardly expected to see him at all. She did not ask many questions or attempt to engage in idle talk, which made her an ideal acquaintance.

“I see,” she said, eyes narrowed, “Will you be wanting some hot water, inspector? There’s stew tonight and as for lunch tomorrow –”

“Water and stew would be much appreciated,” he said quickly, “I shall be going to the precinct early tomorrow and shall not require lunch. Thank you.”

Madame Dubois stood aside to let him pass her on the stairs, and he was careful not to let his wet coat touch her. At the top of the stairs, he heard a small creak from below as she went down to the kitchen and finally Javert allowed himself to lean heavily on the wall. His knee ached and for a moment he was not sure he would make it up the second flight of stairs. The house was quiet around him; four other men lived here beside him, but he had rarely seen them even when he was here full time. They all kept strange hours and they all kept to themselves, which had always suited Javert and would certainly suit him now. 

Javert pushed himself away from the wall and finished the climb to his room, clutching at the bannister and praying that no one would appear to see his struggle. His wish was granted; he made it to his room unmolested and stumbled inside. 

It was cold, almost as cold as the damned outside, but Madame had kept his log box filled and he soon had a fire burning in the grate. Peeling off his wet coat and boots, he stood close to the flames until the landlady knocked on the door with his water. With most of his good clothes still in their trunk at the Gillenormand house, he would be forced to change into an old nightshirt for want of anything else to wear. At least tomorrow he could put on his uniform for his day in the precinct. 

Slowly, he removed the rest of his clothes and hung them over the grate. The water in the jug was piping hot and the steam hit him as he poured it into the basin. Madame Dubois had learned long ago that Javert preferred his water to be hot, the hotter the better. He was always so cold that some days he could plunge his whole hand into the basin and barely feel the warmth of it.

He began to cleanse himself. First he shaved, skimming the razor over his chin and cheeks, falling into the old pattern. When he was still recovering and living with Valjean, his trembling hand and Valjean’s eagerness to help had meant the task was slower, more careful. Javert closed his eyes at the memory of Valjean’s fingertips on his face, unbearably gentle. 

He washed, scrubbing himself fiercely with the cloth, and pulled on the nightshirt. Some old stockings were unearthed at the back of the drawer. It was hardly a dignified outfit but he would not be seeing anyone.

He tried to turn his mind to some correspondence, another letter of recommendations for the prefecture, but the end result was a page of crossings out and an increasingly illegible hand. His mind did not wish to settle, to think of anything but Valjean and his daughter, the look on her face and the scream of the young woman. Javert had not imagined, in his wandering dreams, that this would be how he managed to ruin the holiday. He’d thought of being silent, lost for words, or, worse, talking too much and saying the wrong thing. He should have known though, it would be something like this; his old self was a shadow he could never truly shed, no matter the brightness of Valjean’s light. He was too often in that sun now to always see his dark companion, but he had been foolish to forget that he was there.

Madame Dubois brought his stew and he forced himself to eat it, to think of nothing but filling his spoon and his stomach. Each mouthful was warm at least, even if he did not taste it, and when she came to collect his tray, Madame nodded her approval. She had often chastised him in the past for neglecting his food and, from the way she had looked at him earlier, he assumed he did not make for a happy sight.

By seven o’clock it was too dark to see without the light of the candle. Javert considered not lighting it at all and taking to his bed, but he knew he would not sleep. He lit it from the fire and placed it on the desk. He would write to Valjean, to apologise for his hasty retreat and to promise his company again once the festivities had passed. The letter ended up little better than his earlier attempt, but he hoped that his friend would understand. He did not try to make an excuse for the behaviour of the young woman, or of himself; Valjean, more than anyone, truly knew him.

Javert donned his coat for long enough to slip downstairs, find a gamin on the street and hand over the letter for delivery. Then, half frozen once more and aching, he went to bed. The long hours stretched out ahead of him but he accepted them as the punishment he was due. At least tomorrow he would be back at work and the things he knew. Curling around his pillow, he forced himself to sleep, watching the dying embers of the fire flicker and fade.

At six o’clock, he woke to the slam of a door downstairs and immediately rose, eager to be away. He’d laid out his uniform, ready to be donned and was grateful for it now in the frigid cold. His coat was still damp but once he wore his shirt and thick uniform jacket, the chill was more than bearable. With his stock buckled into place, he felt more himself than he had for days. 

He left a note for Madame Dubois pinned to his door, telling her not to expect him back until very late, and made his way carefully downstairs. Someone was awake, if the slamming door had been any indication, but most of the residents still slumbered and he was loathe to wake them. For all he knew, this was their only day of holiday from their work. 

In the hallway, he put on his hat and buttoned his coat, wrapping his scarf over his stock and covering his ears. He opened the door, half distracted with pulling on his gloves and did not immediately see the figure huddled on the steps. It was only when the man stood and turned that he saw him properly.

“Valjean?” he said, “What – why are you here?”

Valjean was well layered, barely recognisable beneath his collar and scarf, and he smiled as he pulled it down to uncover his mouth.

“I received your note.”

“And it invited you here?” Javert snapped, trapped at the top of the steps, “I do not believe it did. I think I asked to be left alone.”

Valjean frowned and clasped his hands, “There was no reason for you to run. I wish for your company. These sentiments you convey to me-”

“They are not sentiments,” Javert ground between his teeth, “I cannot do it. I cannot. I saw Cosette’s face when that woman screamed. You must have noticed also.”

“I did,” Valjean climbed the first steps, cautious as though Javert was an animal he had tamed, “But she understands your work is sometimes unpleasant. She was shocked, but now I have explained-”

“Curse your explanations!” Javert forgot his wish to be quiet, “You do not understand, still. I was – the man I am is no company for people like your daughter or her husband. I-”

He stopped, cut off by a great shudder than shook Valjean from head to toe. How long had he been sitting on the steps, waiting?

“Come in here,” Javert grabbed his hand and pulled him in, closing the door behind them. The hallway was dim in the morning light and he could not move far in lest Valjean follow him even further.

“Javert –”

“I cannot, Valjean,” Javert hung his head, a great weight pushing him down, down until he was bowed under the bulk of it. He could not look Valjean in the eye. It was too much, too much asked of him and-

“You say I do not understand you,” Valjean whispered, voice low but fierce, “But I fear it is you who does not understand me.”

“What-”

A pair of warm hands grasped his face and lifted it, until he had no choice but to look at the man. Their breaths blew upon one another and then Valjean leaned forwards, his lips to Javert’s. His mouth was cold but his breath was hot and Javert thought that his knees might go from underneath him. Valjean felt it and pushed him back until he was pressed against the wall and Valjean was leaning into him and oh God, he was still kissing him. 

Then, before he could do anything to respond, Valjean had pulled away and rested his forehead on Javert’s chest. He did not move for a long moment, or speak, and Javert raised a shaking hand to touch him.

“Valjean?”

“I am sorry,” he mumbled, “I did not mean to do that. But Javert, surely you – surely you know how I desire your company.”

No more words came, and Javert found he could not form another single one either. With the same hand, he stroked Valjean’s curly hair and, when he finally raised his head, Javert returned his kiss. He had little idea of what he was doing but he felt Valjean smile beneath his lips and although the rub of Valjean’s beard on his chin felt strange, it was a strangeness he could easily bear. 

Only when the door slammed again did Javert remember where he was and pulled away from Valjean, who stepped back and allowed him away from the wall. Javert found he still could not look the other man in the eye, a redness he could feel like a burn creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. When Valjean reached for his hand, he took it gladly, anything to anchor himself a little in this dream.

“I – you do not have to,” Valjean murmured, “But I wish for you to join us again and I promise that neither Cosette nor Marius bears you any ill will. And I – Javert, I would have you with me always. If you would desire it also.”

He had spoken quickly, as though he were afraid of the answer, and Javert wondered at himself, for he laughed. Valjean looked up sharply, eyes sparkling, and then he laughed too, looking down at their joined hands. It had been simple, in the end. 

“Come,” Valjean guided him from the hallway out into the fresh morning and Javert noticed that the snowfall was new, crisp and glistening in the weak sunlight, “Breakfast will be ready by the time we return.”

They walked arm in arm down the street, looking to any who may be watching them like two old men supporting one another through the thick snow. Only Javert knew that Valjean’s ungloved hand, tucked into the crook of his arm, was hot and that heat spread through him until he was warm and full and oh, this was Valjean touching him. Valjean who wanted to be close to him. Who wanted to – who wanted him.  
Javert turned his head and bent his head low. For once, the words came easily.

“Merry Christmas, Jean.”

Valjean looked quickly around them and dragged Javert in by his coat for another kiss, then pressed his lips to Javert’s ear.

“Merry Christmas, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, my lovely folks <3

**Author's Note:**

> Titled borrowed from Mr Frank Sinatra.


End file.
